Semi-Interlude: Sneak Peek

Day 45. 144 pages, 66,110 words.

Good party last night, will try to write a report. In the meantime…

The following is a basically-spoiler-free sneak peek at a snipping from Blaran. It is a stream of consciousness dream sequence based loosely on a dream related to me by a friend who will remain anonymous until they decide otherwise, with a bit of some of my own dream-stuff mixed in, and obviously adapted to contain in-universe people and places.

“I had that dream again,” she changed the subject.

“What dream?”

“You know … I was that Bonshoon entertainer, Hyber Wold. Except I wasn’t really him, I was that Goddess of Plenty character he plays in The Fallen Vahoon. Garla Gunumbous. I was married to Bothyl the Thief and all that. We lived in this old hab out on Bad Moon Three, but Bothyl was really immature and kept leaving and flying to Castermaine for months at a time. Then one night my friend Sally sent me a comm saying she couldn’t get a nod-back from Corps Sci about Bothyl’s whereabouts – which of course, in the dream, meant that he had to be dead for some reason. So I organised a huge group of people to go out. Not looking for Bothyl the Thief, but out for food.

“Just as we were leaving I heard an organiser vibrating against a rock inside an old power conduit that had been rerouted and was now just unused and filled with rubbish. Which was weird because there was still power coming through the conduit even though it didn’t have any nodes inside it. It turned out it wasn’t Bothyl’s pad, but one belonging to this aki’Drednanth whose name was Big Snow Mommy, and everyone knew who she was even though I’m pretty sure there’s never been an aki’Drednanth by that name. And I was angry at that friend of yours, Wildy, for some unknown reason. So I ended up just throwing the pad back into the conduit and letting it fry out.

“Then, like I was saying, this huge group of people – there were thirty of us or more – were all crammed into this single lander and headed to some place at the witchy hour to get food. But we needed to find a place with a decent selection of share-meals because everyone wanted a share-meal each but they all wanted to pretend they were sharing with someone else so they wouldn’t be embarrassed to eat all that food, and I tried explaining that if everyone got a share-meal it would still look like we were all eating a share-meal each even if we pretended to be sharing with someone else who also had a share-meal, but they kept on telling me to shut up even though it was really important that I explain this to them. And we needed a place with a bunch of different coffees because Sally was coming, and of course a bunch of frozen stuff for Big Snow Mommy. Fortunately Brute Barducci was there and he was able to help organise the group of people and he was super-helpful and kind, which was really creepy.

“After we got to the place Sally got an angry comm from Bothyl the Thief for scaring everybody about saying he was probably dead, but he didn’t want to talk to me about anything. But ten minutes later he turned up at the restaurant, and hid in a corner playing this musical physics fusion game thing that made this annoying ba-zing! noise over and over again. Then I realised that Bothyl was just an overgrown Bonshoon man-child and was scared and didn’t know what to do, and that’s why he kept running away. Then he started telling me this story about a tribe of dumblers who made this pilgrimage to a cave, and to get there they had to make a suspension bridge out of their own bodies. Like … like ants, see? They had to do that, just to get one member of the tribe far enough out over the edge of the cliff that he could reach the cave, where there was this liquid that slowly dripped from the ceiling, and he had to drink it.

“Then I was the tribesman, drinking the liquid in the cave. And it was the blood of a massive animal of some kind. And we weren’t in a cave at all, but a valley that the animal was lying across the top of to make it look like a cave,” she held one hand above the other, then brought them together with a clap. “And then I woke up.”

“Oh,” Zeegon said, “that dream.”

Ital grinned. It had almost become a traditional conversation between the two of them by now. “How about you?” she went on. “Did you sleep well?”

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Interlude: Lucky 900

Day 44. 142 pages, 65,091 words.

I regret that I have nothing particularly special planned for this historical event. Nine hundred blog posts. The Hatstand doesn’t look a day over seven hundred, if you ask me.

Today, appropriately enough, we’re holding another party at Bar Äijä’s, this time to celebrate the release[1] of Fergunakil. It should be fun. I keep trying to pare the revelries down, since we have one of these things every three or four months lately and we’re only halfway through the series, but this time my dear friends and family will be bringing most of the supplies so at least it ought to be cheap.

[1] Yes, it was a few weeks ago … but I have a quiz, so I needed to give people time to order and read the book. Not that many people do, by release-party time. Only the happy few who are serious about winning the quiz. And they’re going to want to win this one, because the prize is a doozy.

Anyway, it should be fun, but it leaves me without much time to do anything but attempt to clean up this pigsty. Work is also getting busy again, which is good and bad.

So, today you can just take a look at the latest metrics…

metrics (12)

Here they are.

…and enjoy this animated gif of Deadpool giving Conan O’Brien a massage using panda tears as oil…

deadpool (19)

Here it is.

…and hoist a virtual glass to the next nine hundred posts!

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The First Feast, Part 17

Day 43. 141 pages, 64,145 words.

“The order would prefer to keep it quiet,” Mer said helpfully, “from the humans if not from the Fleet. Although of course, anything passed on to the Fleet might obligate them to share it during their meetings with the Earth leaders.”

“Yes,” Massington said carefully, “but – and again, forgive me – what was the purpose of us landing here? You could have synchronised, and told me about the group watching over your instance if you felt you needed to tell me, and certainly mentioned the Ogres to our aki’Drednanth allies … but this secret side-contact event – I’m afraid I don’t really understand it. For all that I appreciate meeting our new friends here,” he added, giving Adithol and the others a smile and respectful nod just in case they’d been following the conversation in detail. The humans, once again, were involved in their own mumured discussions with Osrai, but they smiled and nodded back cheerfully.

“I am not an officially-recognised authority in the Fleet, despite my ubiquitous nature and usefulness,” Mer said, “and I’m certainly not any sort of sentient-status entity here on Earth. In that sense, the Ogres and I are similar in our standing. But there are important facets of all this – the information I have synchronised with, and what it means to the Fleet – that needs to be disseminated to the Five Species population. It goes beyond the human leaders, although – as I said – we must exercise caution. You are a Fleet Captain and technically a part of the Council at this point, due to your presence in the Earth contact convoy and your position as Machine Mind Organic Interface to the Greater Molran Species if nothing else. No offence intended by that ‘nothing else’, Mass.”

“None taken,” Massington said dryly. “So I’m fractionally more likely to be taken seriously if I start talking about important facets of this contact event. And the more important facets are…?”

“This world,” Mer said. “It can’t have escaped your attention that it is unusual.”

“I had noticed that.”

“And the humans. It can’t have escaped your attention that there is something strange about their situation.”

“It’s almost like they’re squatting here,” Massington mused after a moment’s thought. “Like this whole world is … some sort of a derelict spacecraft that they just stumbled upon, and they’ve been squabbling and breeding in the cargo holds ever since. They’re completely isolated out here, and yet it seems like they’re making a conscious effort to be that way. They’re trying to do something that by its very nature would just happen – should just happen – without effort,” he frowned. “Which is a paradox, and downright contradictory when you consider how much shouting they do and the fact that they seemed to think there weren’t any other people to isolate themselves from,” he looked at the three humans and the two Ogres. “Secretive little brotherhoods notwithstanding.”

“Exactly,” Mer said. “It’s not just self-imposed isolation. It’s isolation from something they no longer even know about, and yet still rail against. They’ve locked their doors and are busy shouting that they’re not listening, they don’t care, they’re not coming out…”

“Are you saying this is a planetary-scale tantrum?”

“Maybe that was how it started,” Mer said, “but humans live and die so fast that within a single Molran’s lifetime any behaviour can become normalised and consequently invisible. No matter how bizarre. They don’t trust their recorded data, and they only have their grandparents’ word on what happened before they were born. And their grandparents look at the world the way their grandparents taught them to look at it, but there’s no continuity to it. And this normalisation is such a constant and low-key thing, it’s consistently overwritten by all the more blatant things they do to each other.”

“Okay,” Massington said, “but I’m not a political mastermind or a cultural xenopologist. What does any of this mean?”

“This world is […] gateway,” Adithol said calmly, as if he had been listening and following every word of Massington’s conversation with the machine mind. “It is a stepping stone in the great river, friend Massington Karturi-Captain. A gateway to a larger […] universe than the meagre galaxy of stars from whence you came. Other worlds than these. Your past, […], your future. It begins here.”

Massington was hardly listening as Adithol continued to hold forth with his ancient-speak mystical near-gibberish.

The gates of space, he thought. My father really should be here. This world is another gate.

“We need to get Myrael and the others down here,” he said in a low, urgent voice. “Like, now.”

“Myrael is already on her way,” Mer said. “I informed her of your meeting with the Ogres on a private channel in her refrigeration suit, and she has removed herself from the Council of Captains discussions in order to make planetfall.”

“Another alien spaceship?” Massington said. “This one aki’Drednanth? How are you going to hide it this time?”

“I’m not,” Mer said. “Myrael can take care of herself.”

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Interlude: Sterilisation and Pro-Natalism

Day 42. 139 pages, 63,229 words.

Oh yeah, we’re doing this.

This morning I saw a delightful BBC article about a woman being abused because of her stance on breeding. Not that anyone being abused online is remotely newsworthy, but whatever. Apparently the UN is thinking about making online abuse classify as a war crime or something, so yeah, this is probably bad.

It did piss me off, though, because this is a pretty damn disgusting reason for verbally abusing someone. There aren’t many reasons I can think of that would qualify as “good” reasons, not if you want to consider yourself a rational and reasonable human being, and certainly not for the sort of verbal abuse we’re talking about here, and certainly not for suggestions of physical harm … but this is a crap reason among crap reasons. Let’s get that point out in the open right now.

You’re allowed to not breed. In fact, it goes beyond that. You don’t even need my approval, let alone my permission – my approval or disapproval is entirely irrelevant. I’m just giving it because this is my blog, and just in case anyone happened to be interested in knowing my opinion. I’m giving it for the same reason this debate exists at all – because human beings are pathologically incapable of staying out of each other’s shit, and I am unfortunately a human being. At least my weigh-in is along “do what you want” lines, instead of “do what I want.” I feel okay about that.

Let’s also get this point out in the open and squared away up-front. The human race isn’t going to become extinct for lack of breeding. In fact, we’re likely to become extinct for a whole lot of reasons. I won’t go so far as to say the opposite is the case, because overpopulation will probably ultimately cause an immense die-off but only to the natural balance-point again. Overpopulation itself will not cause extinction (the aforementioned other factors, some related to overpopulation, notwithstanding).

So no. People who breed are no more saving the planet than the people who aren’t breeding. Neither stance on its own is going to make any difference whatsoever. What’s the next argument? Oh right, non-breeders are selfish.

Fuck off and die in a fire. There you go.

I bred. I was the selfish one, not the non-breeders. I saw a world filled with humans having babies, most of them while starving, and I thought, “me too, except I’m going to be fat instead of starving.” I could have opted out, spent the past five years buying nappies and wet-wipes and baby food and milk formula and car-seats and all the rest, and sending it to poor families. I could have done that. It would have been wonderful. But I didn’t do that, because I suck. All I wanted to do was combine the fuck out of my genes and Mrs. Hatboy’s genes and send that shit into the future like a time capsule that started mouthing off at the age of three. That’s textbook selfish.

This isn’t to say all non-breeders are selfless and wonderful. A lot of them are just shits. This is true of every arbitrary demographic we create within our species for the purposes of alternately bitching about someone else and feeling good about ourselves. Because “being kind of a shit” is the human condition.

Yeah. You’re allowed to not breed. If you want to be sterilised, that’s your choice. Holy fucking shit, we’re arguing in a lot of places right now about whether your choice to die should be a legally-upheld right. How are we still arguing about your choice to breed? Fuck me.

Of course, this does open a can of worms. I remember reading a while ago about cosmetic amputation. What a bunch of psychotic tools. Amputate your heads, please. More recently, an unfortunate woman with some sort of body dysmorphia intentionally blinded herself. Should people have the right to do that shit to themselves if they want to, without at least some sort of attempted conversation about their mental health and whether, maybe, they might want to see shit or pick things up sometime in the future?

And don’t go telling me it’s different. Yes, being able to see stuff is pretty damn important, and having hands or legs is important too. But lacking those functionalities is no longer a death sentence. It’s not the end of your life. Sterilisation is the same. The ability to reproduce is a pretty important part of being an organism, but we like to think of ourselves as pretty special organisms, don’t we? It’s not a personal death sentence if you can’t do it, and it’s not a death sentence for the human race if your precious genes aren’t heading down the river. We’re good for genes, really, thanks. We gave at the office.

Sure, if you want to breed and you have that ability taken away, that’s tragic. Everyone feels differently about all of these things, depending on their upbringing and personal opinions. And there are lots of different cases, exceptions, and what-ifs. But bodily mutilation is bodily mutilation. And that phrase has negative connotations for a reason.


Who’s breeding, and who’s not breeding?

Morons, the destitute, and the irredeemably selfish are breeding. Also, people who just want to have families because they love each other and want to make little versions of themselves to share the love. They’re breeding too, I guess.

Self-righteous arseholes, the destitute, and the obnoxiously socially-conscious aren’t breeding. Also, people who just want to do something else with their lives and don’t see how throwing a little version of themselves into the mix will add value to that. They’re not breeding either. A lot of the non-breeders in my circle are refusing to do so out of a conscious and intellectual choice – they don’t want to wreck up the place, they think there are already too many people, they don’t want to pass on crappy genes. All these reasons are perfectly valid – and again, it goes beyond that. They’re so perfectly valid, they don’t need my approval or permission[1].

[1] Well, okay … the overpopulation thing is a bit dubious to me. The global population is still going to skyrocket no matter how many first world intellectuals sterilise themselves. What’s happening there, on a micro-scale, is a missed opportunity for natural selection to get an injection of smart-genes-plus-smart-genes. But whatever.

Would I prefer it if the smart people were breeding instead of the eejits? Of course I would. There are physiological and genetic markers – in hormone-gland balances and brain chemistry and synaptic configurations, and all sorts of other shit I know diddly-squat about – that mean a certain amount of potential for intelligence can be passed down through heredity. Yes, I’m pretty sure natural selection can theoretically be set to “smart”. However, I’ll settle for those non-breeding smart people getting into positions of power and authority or at least helping to educate the next generation. Our genes, ultimately, are important only on an animal-directive level. It doesn’t matter which humans survive to the next millennium, as long as some of us do. Right now I have my doubts as to whether any of us will, but in order to have any sort of chance, we need to improve. And evolution is too slow. It can’t keep up with our industrious self-destructiveness.

And smart people teaching young people, genetic potential and synaptic pathways be damned, is a way more effective method of improving the species, faster, than just wishfully fucking ourselves smart. Granted, it’s not as fun, but I have faith in the smart people to do what’s not fun. They’ll complain about it of course, but screw it. They’re smart people. They complain all the time anyway.

You want to use contribution to the betterment of humanity as a reason for not breeding? Fine. You’d better do something to contribute to the betterment of humanity, though. Because just “not breeding” isn’t going to cut it. If you’re not going to do anything else, then stop abusing the “contribution to the betterment of humanity” reason. Better people than you are using that reason. Just go back to the “because fuck you, I don’t want to have kids” reason. That reason is perfectly valid. And I will admire you all the more for being up-front about it.

Education and learned behaviour is as much a legacy as brown hair or the ability to grow non-polyp cancer in your butthole[2]. We’ve gone as far as physical, genetic evolution will take us.

[2] Seriously, guys. Worst X-Man power ever.

Well, okay, that’s something of an exaggeration. Of course evolution hasn’t stopped. It’s just that our social and cultural development has begun moving so fast, evolution might as well be at a standstill as far as its ability to practically enhance the quality of our existence goes. Even our technology has outstripped it – literally, we’re at a point where we are more likely to alter our genetic code technologically than to wait for selective breeding and environment to do it for us.

And let’s face it, the environmental shit we’re facing now, evolution isn’t going to have time to adapt to that shit. Evolution’s “slow but steady wins the race” deal might just work out for the next species to come along in our wake, but it’s not going to help us. Our bodies are still voting yea or nay on the fucking appendix while our lungs are trying to find some way for us to dig oxygen out of smog. Genetic alteration is starting to look like the way to go, isn’t it?

Or, you know, getting rid of the smog. Over to you, smart people. Please help us before we breed you out of existence.

Well, that’s just about my full and unabridged opinion on the matter of breeders vs. non-breeders. Except – oh yeah, just typing the previous sentence reminded me of one thing that I find really annoying.


See, what I disapprove of most about (some) non-breeders is their habit of couching their belief as an indictment of breeders. This is entirely natural and even makes sense[3], because many breeders do the same thing to non-breeders. This post, and the article that inspired it, is about exactly that.

[3] You know, in an eye-for-an-eye sort of way that most of them pretend to be above doing. But whatever, whiners.

It’s also the human condition, of course, to take one’s own belief as a baseline and then uphold it by tearing down opposing beliefs instead of simply being content with the rectitude of one’s own stance. Like I say, we’re a shitty, shitty species.

I usually laugh at the Oatmeal, for example, but his piece on breeders vs. non-breeders is classic bullshit, and I get it waved in my face by non-breeders who should know better far too often[4]. I’m sure Oatmeal Guy has encountered morons who gave him the inspiration for that comic, but it’s still bullshit. It doesn’t help that he also does a lot of pointless shit about cats vs. babies. Yeah, they’re funny and they’re clearly intended that way, so I don’t get mad about it. Oatmeal Guy does a lot of funny stuff and he’s obviously not going to appeal to everybody, all the time.

[4] I don’t care, of course. It’s just mildly irritating and disappointing when I see apparently smart people not using the one attribute they think makes them so special.

Part of my problem is that any objection to those “jokes”, from a parent, will automatically be taken as a pro-natal backlash. Of course I feel that way about the comics. I’m a breeder, right?

Fuck off. Die. Fire.

Another part of my problem is that the comics are self-evidently speaking from a position of massive bias (which is fine, because you’re allowed to have a bias and being a non-breeder is perfectly alright), and ignorance about raising children (which is not fine, because talking about things you’re ignorant of is a sign that you are a tool).

I guess what I’m saying, obnoxious non-breeders, is the same thing I would say – futilely, but this is my blog – to the obnoxious breeders: Shut your dillweed mouth about things that don’t concern you. Have the confidence in your philosophical position to simply uphold it without attacking others.

Take the high ground you fucking love so much.

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The First Feast, Part 16

Day 41. 132 pages, 60,830 words.

The warehousers showed Massington around eagerly, although by the time they got halfway down one of the aisles between the crate-stacks he’d become completely unable to distinguish meaningful artefacts from junk. The light-fountain things, strangely, were ‘junk’ according to the mysterious classifications of the warehouse custodians.

“Bars in the cell of the Prison Angelic,” Boriel Belal explained enigmatically, “and naught more.”

To Massington, ‘Bars in the cell of the Prison Angelic’ made the strange iron devices seem quite important, but he would be the first to admit that he had no context to make such an assumption. He nodded politely and made what he hoped were appropriately admiring sounds as he was shown an assortment of baffling items. The Ogres clanked along behind them, occasionally knocking things off shelves or bumping into the piles of crates solidly enough to give the Molran a mild attack of claustrophobic panic at the thought of the whole lot collapsing on top of them.

After a while, he felt it would be a good idea to broach the subject of the Fleet.

“Our representatives – the Council of Captains – are planning a meeting with Earth leaders,” he said. “The heads of state to as many of your nations as can be arranged.”

“Yes,” Adithol said, “we hear it whispered e’en on the wind, and indeed our stalwart […] Osrai doth also murmur titbits of […] unto our humble ears.”

“They shall meet, anon, on the blasted and forsaken land of Terellia,” Boriel added.

“Yes,” Massington agreed awkwardly, “anon.”

“Aye,” Adithol said, giving Massington a glance that the Molran was reasonably sure was admiring. “A most diverting and […] intriguing ploy, friend Massington Karturi-Captain. A most […] indeed, on the part of your Council.”

“Is it? Oh,” Massington looked around. “Well, it was sort of a joint decision, and from what I understand the First Citizen of Terellia is a reasonable fellow. Hopefully the meeting – or the pre-meeting, or whatever we’re calling it – will go smoothly,” he noted Adithol’s attentive look. “Will you be represented in this meeting?” he asked.

“Alas, no,” Adithol said with a laugh. “Ours is an order that must […] secret for the long march of ages.”

“Oh,” Massington paused. “So, forgive me, but what about this meeting?” he gestured with his upper hands. “The meeting we’re having now. How will this meeting fit into the wider contact timetable?”

“Well,” Mer spoke up, “that’s where it once again gets a little-”

“-complicated?” Massington guessed.


“I thought so.”

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Interlude: Marvel, DC and the Lonely God

Day 40. 130 pages, 58,108 words.

Recently, Mrs. Hatboy and I have been working our way through some Netflix offerings. We just watched the first season of Gotham, and are now starting the Netflix Original Series Jessica Jones. DC, and Marvel respectively.

I’m still not entirely clear on how they all link up together continuity-wise. The Marvel stuff, at least, seems to connect. Jessica Jones is a person in Hell’s Kitchen, New York, just like the Daredevil character from the Marvel series of the same name. Furthermore, both shows reference the Avengers franchise, at least in passing. Jones has superpowers, as does the scary-as-fuck antagonist Kilgrave and the character I will – for want of a less charmingly-naïve term – call Jones’s love interest. This sort of fits with the “age of inhumans” stuff that has been emerging in the movies and the Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. show. Superpowered humans are showing up, and human civilisation is adjusting the way human civilisation always does: like a bunch of howling, poop-throwing monkeys.

Gotham, on the other hand … I don’t know. DC seems to reboot its shit even more regularly and dramatically than Sony’s Spiderman or the X-Men series. This is a prequel series set in the present day, so Bruce Wayne and Selena Kyle are adolescents – which puts Batman and Catwoman somewhere in Gotham’s future. Probably at least ten years in Gotham’s future, but who knows? It’s cool, and I really like the Penguin’s story arc and character[1] and a lot of the other side-characters, but I just don’t see how it can connect to either the old continuity (as represented by the Christian Bale Batmans, let alone the Michael Keaton ones) or whatever continuity they’re trying to create for the Batman / Superman / Wonder Woman / Aquaman / Justice League set.

[1] I’m one of those people who hasn’t really liked a Batman movie since Batman Returns, and I thought Danny DeVito’s Penguin was hilarious. Gotham’s Penguin isn’t exactly like him, but damn it he’s close enough.

Gotham is also fun for the veritable galaxy of DC heroes, anti-heroes and villains they’ve thrown into the mix. Joker, Scarecrow, Riddler, Poison Ivy, Two-Face, the whole Arkham sideshow … and, obviously, Commissioner Gordon. DC seems to work better when their characters don’t have superpowers, which makes them interesting for their own sakes. So far, there only seemed to be fleeting-and-open-to-interpretation references to anyone with any sort of special powers. The rest is just … people being people. Sometimes good, usually bad.

A huge surprise-upset notwithstanding, obviously we know Jim Gordon is going to make it to Police Commissioner and Bruce Wayne is going to survive to become Batman … but do we even know that? Guess I’ll have to wait for Netflix to deign to bestow season two upon our humble and unworthy heads.

I was left with this final thought:

Jessica Jones becomes infinitely more horrible when you pretend that Kilgrave (played by David Tennant) is the Doctor. Think about it.

This would come after the events of The Waters of Mars, when he was smacked down for thinking he could change fixed points in time and become the Time Lord Victorious. He took off and went a bit nuts for a while, deciding he really was the Lonely God and that all of the universe should bend to his will. Later on, one of his companions – in fact I think it was Rose, when she returns briefly – asks him how long he’s been travelling alone. The obvious answer is “too long”, and that he really shouldn’t travel by himself. I may be mixing this up with some of the Matt Smith arc, so sorry about that. He was pretty crazy too. Anyway, the point remains.

What if the Doctor went off the rails, went to Hell’s Kitchen, and began a spree of sociopathic meddling with the feeble humans? He’s clearly a better bad guy than the Daleks or the Master ever were (Missy, perhaps, included – but that will have to wait for a later post). Later on, he gets it out of his system and seems to be fine again … and yet …

Kilgrave’s relationship with Jones (and I admit I’m only a few episodes in, so this is open to amendment) is very like the dark side of a Doctor / Companion recruitment.

And the less said about blonde, too-young Hope *cough-cough-Rose-cough-cough* Shlottman, the better.

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Interlude: [expletives deleted]

Day 39. 123 pages, 54,819 words.

I’ve decided I’m going to go into business designing washing machines.

First I am going to make up a batch of plaster. Then I’m going to take off my pants and plop my arse into the plaster, and make a cast of my butt. Then, while the plaster sets, I’m going to eat a bunch of expired food, emptying the resultant diarrhoea from my colostomy bag into the cast, and firm it up with a bit of cement powder or something. Some research and development money may have to go into this. I will then put it out in the sun to dry. When it’s all ready, I will take away the plaster and the result will be a hardened-shit bust of my flabby stitched-up arse cheeks.

It will also be a better washing machine than this piece of irredeemable fuckery Samsung have managed to sell to us.

I’m considering setting up a kickstarter to pay for my triumph-assured entrance into the washing machine design race. If it doesn’t cover the R&D I need re: the concrete powder, it might at least allow me to afford to fill this machine with used shit-bags and post it to Samsung’s headquarters.

The good news is that, after it errored-out and I had to drain it twice, I was getting pretty good at using the piece-of-shit useless drainage tube. The bad news is, the error code insists that the machine isn’t hooked up right. And we paid for the motherfuckers at Gigantti to hook it up right.

This weekend was fucking useless. Starting to worry about missing my 70-day deadline.

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